


aren't we made to be crowded together, like leaves?

by elegantwings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Rimming, really just an excuse to write porn with feelings, the very vaguest mention of group sex among witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25660516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantwings/pseuds/elegantwings
Summary: “Kaer Morhen is for witchers,” Geralt says finally, almost a plea. Jaskier suddenly realizes that if Geralt shows up with a bard in tow, a human, there’s likely no precedent for how his fellow witchers will react.“If you didn’t want me to come,” Jaskier says reasonably, because he can be reasonable, fuck you, “You would have left me behind.”In fairness, Jaskier would probably try to find Geralt, if he left him behind, even knowing it was a fruitless endeavor.Geralt’s face twists at Jaskier’s words. He looks worn, and tired, and Jaskier wonders, not for the first time, if witchers just hibernate for three months a year. Melitele knows Geralt deserves the rest.“If I leave you alone, you’ll get yourself killed,” Geralt mutters, and that seems to be the end of that.It’s not true, of course. Jaskier has done an excellent job of keeping himself alive for the past 19 years. Meeting Geralt at practically the same time he’d decided to strike out on his own had nothing to do with it.***Geralt takes Jaskier home for the winter, and on the way, a blizzard forces them to spend the night together in a cave.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 583





	aren't we made to be crowded together, like leaves?

**Author's Note:**

> My birthday is coming up, and as a present to myself, along with everyone else, I present angst free soft smut hours. 
> 
> Title from Third Of May / Ōdaigahara by Fleet Floxes. Were it not for Marina [@regulardragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulardragon) I would never have titles. Thank you, babe!

Jaskier does not have a death wish, despite what Geralt may have to say on the matter. He can’t possibly have a death wish, considering how he left Lettenhove for Oxenfurt, and then Oxenfurt for the bloody world. He has a _life_ wish, if anything. It was reaffirmed in the moments after the elves decided, against all odds to let them go. When they gifted Jaskier with the most exquisite lute he’s ever touched let alone played, and _oh_ does it play, as he coaxes out a brilliant accompaniment to the words that flow from his mouth like so much water. 

And like water flowing, he follows Geralt, helplessly, the witcher as his muse, inspiring endless ballads. If he cared a whit for money or fame, he would have followed in the footsteps of fucking Valdo Marx, becoming a kept bard in the court of the first monarch enspelled by his pretty voice. No, he doesn’t give a shit about that, not half as much as he wants to _see_ the Continent, wants to enter the forbidden Brokilon Forest, climb the Dragon Mountains. Wants to see for himself each rumor and tall tale he’s ever heard and measure it against the truth.

“I’m wintering in Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says, one afternoon, not long after they meet for the first time in Posada. It’s a fair point, as this part of the Continent is well on it’s way to winter. Jaskier doesn’t have winter plans, exactly. He’s sworn off Lettenhove as long as his parents continue to try and arrange a marriage that suits their specifications, so he imagines he’ll go “home” again in approximately as many years as it takes for them to drop it. Perhaps for Mother and Father’s funerals, sometime in the next decade if he should be so lucky. 

Jaskier could also go to Oxenfurt and teach. Melitele knows they were desperate to hire him on as a professor practically the second he graduated, as if someone like him could ever be content to teach without experiencing. He could lecture all day and all night about chords and progressions and it wouldn’t mean shit compared to actually getting heckled out of a tavern, relying on the very same vegetables and bread your audience uses to drive you off-stage as your only sustenance. And it’s even less compared to that feeling you get the first time a crowd really, truly _loves_ you. He’d had a taste of it, in school, but his audience was expectant and refined in a way a real audience never was. You knew what to expect from an Oxenfurt production, and you were well within your rights to complain if it didn’t measure up to standard. 

In a real tavern, among real folk, you have to have a sixth sense for the general mood and desires of the crowd. Have to know if they want a real blow by blow account of the monster slaying in their village, or a romantic fabrication. Most of the time they wanted the latter, and when Geralt showed his face after a contract, could be persuaded to toss him a coin or two, motivated by never having to experience the truth of his miserable work. 

So, in short, Jaskier doesn’t _want_ to go to Oxenfurt, and would die before going home, so he keeps following Geralt. Even as the road turns treacherous up towards the Blue Mountains, as the creatures Geralt hunts become more and more feral and miserable with the cold. 

“Kaer Morhen is for witchers,” Geralt says finally, almost a plea. Jaskier suddenly realizes that if Geralt shows up with a bard in tow, a human, there’s likely no precedent for how his fellow witchers will react. 

“If you didn’t want me to come,” Jaskier says reasonably, because he can be reasonable, fuck you, “You would have left me behind.” 

In fairness, Jaskier would probably try to find Geralt, if he left him behind, even knowing it was a fruitless endeavor. 

Geralt’s face twists at Jaskier’s words. He looks worn, and tired, and Jaskier wonders, not for the first time, if witchers just hibernate for three months a year. Melitele knows Geralt deserves the rest. 

“If I leave you alone, you’ll get yourself killed,” Geralt mutters, and that seems to be the end of that.

It’s not true, of course. Jaskier has done an excellent job of keeping himself alive for the past 19 years. Meeting Geralt at practically the same time he’d decided to strike out on his own had nothing to do with it.

***

Jaskier has never been so cold _in his life._ Lettenhove has the luxury of hearths aplenty in the winter, and although Oxenfurt is by the sea, it was easy enough to sequester oneself when the temperatures dipped. On the way to Kaer Morhen, there’s only furs and fires that stand up very little to the piercing winds. 

It’s not long before Geralt is insisting that Jaskier ride Roach and piling him up with their spare blankets and his own cloak. Jaskier wants to insist he’s fine, can handle it, but the truth is, he’s _cold,_ and he hates it. And it’s unlike Geralt to fuss, and it’s unlike Jaskier to stop someone from fussing over him. 

Jaskier doesn’t regret his decision until it snows. 

Geralt won’t let him walk on his own at all anymore, although Jaskier can do so just fine without slipping on a patch of ice thank you very much, he is a grown man. And if Roach can stand to put her legs in three feet of snow so can he, for fuck’s sake. Nevermind that his boots have been soaking for days even whether he stands on his own or not, and they’re going to fall apart sooner than later. 

He had really thought Geralt would leave him behind way before they got this far. 

“Rare for a blizzard to hit this early,” Geralt says darkly, mostly to himself. 

“Blizzard?” Jaskier asks. It’s snowing, certainly, but if Geralt thinks this is a blizzard, maybe the trip won’t be so bad after all. It also lends more evidence to the idea that witchers sleep through the bulk of winter. 

“Give it a few hours,” Geralt says firmly, and as predicted, the air soon becomes white and somehow even more cold. Jaskier is thankful then that he doesn’t have to see where he’s going, because he’d surely become lost and then a bard-shaped ice cube in short order. He’s seen Geralt take down six bandits despite some sort of magical smoke screen, so he’s not really worried about Geralt getting them lost. He is incredibly worried about Roach, though, and that he’s still freezing beneath both his and Geralt’s cloaks, lips chapped and the little bit of his exposed face going numb. 

He can hear that Geralt is shouting something, but not exactly what, and then Roach is slowly but surely approaching a dark shape. As they get closer he realizes it’s a cave, and the inside is pitch black when they enter. Jaskier can hear Roach now, her hooves against the ground, her laboured breathing. Geralt doesn’t say anything, but presumably stops, because Roach does, and after a few moments and some sounds of movement later, a small fire is going. Jaskier can see clearly now, and there’s a few peculiar piles of things he wouldn’t have expected to find in a cave below the mountains. A pile of firewood, for example, next to a pile of furs and a few stacks of packages. 

“Are we in someone’s home?” he asks, disbelieving.

Geralt is taking one of the packages and opening it to reveal dry rations. “More of a contingency plan. We travel up the mountain every winter, and some are harsher than others.”

“Don’t tell me you mean to stay here all winter!” Jaskier gasps. He doesn’t think he could last in here one week let alone an entire season. 

“Not nearly enough supplies,” Geralt regards him like he’s a complete idiot. “We can wait out the storm, though.” 

Jaskier nods, and Geralt looks at him expectantly. It’s not that he doesn’t want to get off Roach, but. “A little help, please?” he asks, self-conscious. Geralt raises his arms out, but he doesn’t seem to expect Jaskier to kind of slide into his arms. “Fuck yes,” Jaskier stretches like a cat into his warmth. 

“You need to strip,” Geralt says thinly, and starts to pull the first cloak from his shoulders. 

“Forward,” Jaskier says with mock-disbelief, but he wiggles down to his chemise and trousers. “I can dry out by the fire.” He’s too cold right now to lay out his clothes to dry properly, but between the fire and Geralt’s natural heat, he knows it won’t be too long. 

“All the way,” Geralt demands, and tosses one of the furs in his direction. Jaskier is going to complain that Geralt himself isn’t taking off his clothes, but then he _is,_ and he arranges the rest of the furs around the fire while in the nude. Jaskier thinks is cock is too close to an open flame for comfort, and then he blushes hard when he realizes he’s been staring at said cock for a few moments too long. He undresses the rest of the way while carefully staring at the ground, and settles down on a particularly inviting pile of furs, wrapping himself in the one Geralt tossed him earlier. A few moments later, there’s a pot of water boiling over the fire and Geralt is sitting down next to him, still completely nude, very distractingly not covered at all by a fur. 

Jaskier pays close attention to the fire. He doesn’t even realize he’s falling asleep until a _thump_ beside him startles him awake, and he turns to see that Geralt has thrown over one of the bags of rations. Inside, there’s salted meat and hardtack, and somewhat surprisingly, a bag of nuts and dried fruit. Jaskier claims that for himself, tucking it into his lap under the fur and taking out a few handfuls. It’s sweet on his tongue in a way he’d thought he’d left behind when summer ended. The thought of summer bids his body the rest of the way towards _warm_ , and once he’s picked out all the pieces of fruit from the bag, he lets himself fall asleep for real. 

***

When he wakes up, the fire has burned down and his arms are wrapped around the ration bag like it’s a stuffed toy. It’s entirely possible he’s colder now than he was when they were outside. “Geralt,” he whines loudly, teeth chattering. He doesn’t even feel bad when the other man startles awake and jumps up, on the alert for danger. Then he lets out one of his more irritated sighs and begins to tend to the fire. 

When it’s burning steadily again, Geralt sighs once more and examines Jaskier. He imagines he must look a sight right now, shivering pathetically. “You’re the most foolish human I’ve ever met,” Geralt says flatly, and gets down next to him on the fur-covered ground. 

Normally, Jaskier would just ignore his cheek and go back to sleep, maybe say something scathing in return. Normally, Jaskier isn’t worried his balls are going to freeze off. So he scoots as close as possible to Geralt until their chests almost touch. He is too cold, thank fuck, for his body to react in any particular way to the sudden proximity of Geralt’s cock to his own. He closes his eyes and relishes the warmth as Geralt throws another fur over them.

As he gets more comfortable, he realizes that _Geralt’s_ cock is getting hard next to his own. He blinks his eyes open and stares at Geralt for a few moments in the dim light. His heart feels too fast against Jaskier’s chest, almost fast enough to be human, and he is very pointedly not looking at Jaskier. “It’s a natural reaction,” he mutters. 

“It is,” Jaskier agrees cheerfully, “Is this why you let me come with you to the secret witcher hideout?” 

And Gerat _blushes_ , which is a sight to see, even in the dim light. “It’s not a secret hideout,” he says defensively. 

“I think you were going to seduce me in your childhood home,” Jaskier mock-whispers. 

“I don’t know how to seduce anyone,” Geralt mumbles, not quite a denial. 

“Bollocks,” Jaskier says firmly, “With the wandering around naked with a body carved from marble while I pretend like the sight of you doesn’t make the room feel like someone’s sucked out all the air.” 

A few moments of silence pass.

“You’re really serious,” Geralt says finally, disbelieving. “You’d like it if I seduced you.” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost _painful._ “It’s most certainly too late for _that_.” 

“I honestly thought it would be more difficult than this,” Geralt says, and kisses him.

All the nights Jaskier had forced himself to stop thinking about what this exact moment would be like. All the times he willed his cock to calm down, because Melitele knew that it didn’t matter how good he’d gotten at wanking in the middle of the night without waking his roommates at the temple school, Geralt would _know_. And his cock could never decide if it was more excited by getting caught by Geralt or _with_ Geralt. He’d never tried, but several nights he’d come so close, clenching his thighs reflexively because he’d been so hard for so long that even the fabric of his smallclothes was too much for his sensitized skin. 

Kissing Geralt is wonderful, his cool medallion a counterpoint to the heat they generate between them. His calloused hands wander up and down Jaskier’s skin, skin Jaskier carefully softened with scented creams, the skin so used to the gentlest silks. Jaskier’s felt those hands before, on his skin, pushing him out of danger, or handing him something. Never like this, just to feel him, to map him out. Jaskier thinks that each spot Geralt touches will stay warm now, forever, and so he hopes Geralt keeps going until he’s touched everything. 

If his cock had any problem with the temperature before, it’s doesn’t anymore. 

He’s never been more delighted that they are more or less of a height, although he’s certainly been smug about it before. Geralt acts like no one’s possibly as capable as he is at anything, but had no choice but to grudgingly admit this, at least. That Jaskier is _sturdy,_ that he takes up almost as much space in the world as Geralt does. There have been more than a few times Geralt has thoughtlessly let a branch snap back in Jaskier’s direction, apologizing with just a flash of embarrassment in his eyes. Jaskier is learning how to tell apart all of those little blink-and-you’ll-miss-it emotions. Here, in the fire-light, it’s almost hard to see. Oh, but he can hear each involuntary gasp when their cocks touch. 

Jaskier is greedy for each sound Geralt makes, and he can’t stop himself from doing anything to coax out more delightful nose. Because while Jaskier prides himself on his ability to read people, and as much as he loves deciphering and filing away each of the various looks on Geralt’s face, he’s a man who thrives on music. He can only hope to make a song as beautiful as the first _loud_ moan falls from Geralt’s lips when Jaskier starts to stroke his cock. 

“You are going to fucking wreck me,” Jaskier marvels.

“You’re fucking right I am,” Geralt agrees and rolls them both over so that he’s on top. He starts rutting his hips in a steady rhythm, his pendant falling forward against Jaskier’s chest. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d felt a lover’s jewelry while they fucked, but _is_ the first time it’s not some sort of delicate piece that’s worth more than Jaskier’s best outfit. He can wrap his fingers around the leather cord and hold on tight, not enough to cause discomfort but enough to steady himself. And Geralt moves as if he’s being led, moaning in surprised pleasure, leaning down to kiss him. One hand finds Jaskier’s and holds it, spreading their arms wide. 

Jaskier is starting to sweat, feels it at his temples and where their bodies touch. The furs are getting damp beneath them, and somehow it feels good against his heated skin. The furs move underneath him easily, a counterpoint to Geralt above him, rough and unyielding.

Jaskier tries for casual but knows he sounds desperate and breathy when he says, “You should fuck me.” It’s a good thing he left his dignity behind when he first left home, because he’s losing the battle not to just flip over and present like a creature in heat. 

Geralt responds with another one of those helpless moans and squeezes Jaskier’s ass with his free hand. Still hovered over Jaskier, he breaks the kiss and presses two fingers to Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier automatically sucks them eagerly into his mouth. He’s not partial to how he gets fucked, exactly, and he’ll happily give Geralt a show of what it might be like for him to thrust that gigantic cock down his throat. He could suck Geralt’s cock, he thinks, as his own jumps at the thought, and maybe next time he’ll ride him. Maybe next time they’ll actually be in a real room without a storm several meters away and raging outside of the cave opening. There would be a next time, of course, since Jaskier had wheedled out that Geralt had wanted this too, all along. Or at least, long enough that he’d been planning to do something about it when they reached the keep. 

Geralt removes his fingers, and Jaskier expects that he’ll replace it in short order with his cock. Instead, he’s sliding down the length of Jaskier’s body with his usual coiled grace, gorgeous, more so because Jaskier gets to see him wanting. Wanting _him_. He squeezes their held hands together once and lets go, and _oh_ , Jaskier is not expecting the way his chest aches with the loss. He makes up for it quickly, though, moving Jaskier’s legs so that his thighs bend back. His raised knees lift the fur up just enough that he can watch Geralt spread his cheeks wide. “Geralt,” his voice breaks at the first touch of tongue to his hole. One of Geralt’s wet fingers probes gently at the skin beside his mouth while he licks and sucks, and the combination of velvety feel of his tongue with the first bare hint of a stretch makes him gasp. He knows he’s babbling now, just as surely as he knows that Geralt’s hanging on to every word. 

It’s a perfect torture and his cock is an afterthought, slpping in its own precome against his belly. As much as he wants to touch himself, if he doesn’t hold his thighs back his legs will give out and if Geralt stops what he’s doing, even for a second, Jaskier will absolutely die. Geralt’s hands are otherwise preoccupied, holding him open.

When Jaskier loses his control and reaches for his cock, Geralt looks up and touches his wrist. And even though it’s dark under the fur, he can see Geralt’s eyes glinting in the light of the fire. A predator with an interrupted meal. “If you wait,” he rumbles, and Jaskier swears he can feel the vibrations, “It will be worth it.” 

Jaskier nods rabbit-fast. “Yeah, yeah, great, sounds good.” He hand falls uselessly to his side. Geralt doesn’t go back to his task, though, and Jaskier pouts when he frees himself from their little nest. 

“Thought you wanted me to fuck you.” Geralt smirks a little at Jaskier’s lack of response, but he can’t help it, okay, Geralt’s uncharacteristic abundance of words drives him speechless. The irony is not lost on him. 

Jaskier takes the opportunity to stare unabashedly while Geralt looks around in the pile of supplies. Now he can watch his muscles stretch as he moves, doesn’t have to look away and feign indifference when he sees his hard, thick cock straining. It’s better than Jaskier could have imagined. 

Geralt turns around and holds up a small glass bottle towards the light, before nodding in satisfaction.

“You keep lube in your way stations?” Geralt hums. “Thought you said only witchers went to Kaer Mohren.” 

Geralt shrugs. “Sometimes we travel together.” 

Jaskier blinks several times as his mind is assaulted with the vision of Geralt and who knows how many other witchers all stuck together in a cave. In this fantasy, the cave is a lot smaller, and all of the witchers look like Geralt, with blurred out faces and dark hair. “You absolutely must tell me more about that,” Jaskier practically begs. 

“Not much to tell.” Geralt kneels down beside him and hands him the bottle. “Easy way to keep warm during a storm.” 

Jaskier eyes him suspiciously. “I thought you witchers didn’t get cold.” The oil doesn’t smell like anything, really, and he decides he approves of the way it feels between his fingers. 

Geralt, damn him, cracks a smirk. “We don’t.” 

Jaskier gives up on getting any good stories out of him, for now, and holds open the fur. “Well, I do, so get back in here.” 

Geralt reaches for the offered corner and arranges them again so that he’s on top when he leans down to capture Jaskier’s mouth in another bruising kiss. Without thinking about it, Jasker drops the bottle from his hand in favor of touching Geralt, because he’s wanted to touch for so long. Wondered how Geralt’s each of Geralt’s scars would feel under his hands. Jaskier knows them all, the bites, the claw marks, the burns, the marks from knives and whips. He’s even washed some of the wounds, cleaned them when Geralt couldn’t, or deemed it unnecessary, and he’s catalogued each one in his mind. Written about some of them even, hidden between lyrics about his strong arms and deadly precision. Now he gets to feel whichever one he wants, gets to worship it with his fingers and his lips when he can reach. Sometimes Geralt doesn’t react at all, like when Jaskier traces the pattern of a set of teeth in the meat of his thigh, and sometimes he makes the prettiest gasp like when Jaskier sucks, just a little, at a jagged line of white against his shoulder. 

While Jaskier wanders over Geralt’s body, Geralt retrieves the oil and pulls out the stopper with one hand. Jaskier doesn’t see any of it happen, distracted by Geralt’s tongue in his mouth and all, his hard cock against his hip, his voice by gods. He only knows what Geralt’s up to when he feels the press of two fingers against his still-damp hole. He doesn’t feel quite relaxed, exactly, but the memory of Geralt’s tongue inside of him makes him shudder in anticipation, and Geralt uses that moment to ease his fingertips in.

As much as Jaskier had indulged in cock sucking and fingerfucking during university, he’s only had the occasional pleasure of a good dicking in his short life. And his peers, like himself, were delicate-handed, with only the occasional rough patch on their hands from playing their instrument. Nothing could have prepared him for the fullness of just Geralt’s two fingers, that could have passed for a cock on their own. At least Geralt is liberal with his use of oil, occasionally dripping a little more into Jaskier’s hole to ease the way. 

Jaskier tries to relax, but impatience makes his body try to tense up. Geralt maintains an even pace, somehow, despite how badly he must be able to tell that Jaskier wants him to hurry up and fuck him proper. And if his straining cock is anything to go by, how badly Geralt wants to fuck him. He doesn’t even rush when Jaskier starts to stroke him, seemingly unmoved, only giving himself away in an occasional close-eyed shudder. 

Jaskier feels as though his cock has been hard for centuries by the time Geralt decides he’s ready to get fucked. Geralt, damn him, seems calm even when he lines up his cock and begins to enter Jaskier, still slow, still cautious. Jaskier has half a mind to wrap his legs around Geralt’s back and drag him all the way in, but for Geralt’s hands firmly holding his hips still. “Fuck me,” he whines.

And Geralt, the bastard, stops almost entirely. “Good things come to those who wait.” he says with a smirk, and pulls his cock out, and then back in again just a bit. 

Jaskier drops his head back against the ground and groans in frustration. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.” 

Geralt hauls him up so that he’s more or less sitting in his lap, and kisses him. Gravity does the rest of the work of lowering Jaskier down on Geralt’s cock until he’s so deep, surely deeper than Jaskier’s ever been fucked before. He’s spread over Geralt’s thighs, and Geralt’s thighs are spread wide too, and Jaskier can only take it while Geralt does all the work. 

Jaskier thrills at being manhandled by Geralt, someone so obviously made to do just that. Someone so obviously made for the day when Jaskier decides to take control. That idea makes it so much sweeter to feel the gentleness of Geralt’s raw strength, so rarely used to do anything but destroy. Geralt is fucking him, no mistake, and each moan still sounds forced out of him, but he holds Jaskier in place with such care, waits perfectly still when he finally bottoms out so that Jaskier can adjust. 

Their position means Jaskier can do little more than wait until he gets used to the feeling of Geralt inside of him. Geralt may not be moving, but Jaskier is pretty sure he can feel his cock pulse occasionally, and after a few moments he can’t help but clench around him in response. 

Geralt lowers him back onto the fur and starts to fuck him. His hand finds Jasker’s and holds it tightly, using his other hand to brace himself against the ground. “You can come any time you’d like now,” he says, low, watching Jaskier.

Jaskier makes a face, rolling his eyes just a little. “Thanks for your permission.” He does start to touch himself, but not because he’s been given permission. He’d just gotten a little distracted by, well. Everything else. 

“Next time I’ll make you beg,” Geralt says in the same cool tone he says everything, and it’s devastating, and Jaskier has been on edge long enough that it makes him come. 

Geralt keeps fucking him while he comes, even when Jaskier’s spend hits his chest and he doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand, either, holding on so tightly that Jaskier knows he will feel the ghost of this, too, in the morning. Just like he’ll feel the whole length of Geralt’s cock well into the rest of their journey north. And if he’s lucky, Geralt will fuck him again, and keep doing it unti they’ve memorized how it feels. 

Geralt pulls out and starts to stroke himself off, but Jaskier makes a noise of displeasure and reaches for his cock. “Come in me,” he pleads, just this side of demanding. 

Geralt frowns, like he’s not sure, but he seems to betray himself when he allows Jaskier to guide him back into his hole. He moans, no longer holding back, and he looks so satisfied and open. Aftershocks shudder through Jaskier, and when Geralt drags against his prostate, it feels like he’s coming again, just for a moment. A few hard, erratic thrusts later and Geralt comes, looking wild, saying, “Jaskier,” broken and barely audible. 

Jaskier is very good at hearing his name and deciphering the various tones of the people who say it. He’s decided this one is the very best he’s ever heard. 

Geralt has done a good job so far of taking charge, and Jaskier is content to let him continue while he catches his breath. His hips are a bit sore where they were spread, and he can feel the places where Geralt bit his chest and neck. Geralt brings over waterskins and a clean rag, and after they’ve cleaned up, he coaxes Jaskier to move to a cleaner part of the furs. He accomplishes this by just moving himself and ignoring Jaskier until he does the same. It works. 

They’re arranged together now, close but not too close to the fire that Geralt stoked back up a few minutes ago. He’s holding Jaskier against his chest, and he’s so broad and solid that Jaskier has no fear of waking up freezing cold again, fire or not. “I could live with staying here a few days,” he decides. 

A long silence stretches, and Jaskier wouldn’t be surprised if Geralt has fallen asleep. “I thought you would complain more about climbing a mountain." 

Jaskier rolls around in Geralt’s arms so that they’re face to face. “Well I don’t love it.” he admits, “But I always like traveling with you. Imagine me doing something I didn’t actually want to do.” 

“Fair point,” Geralt nods, and he lets Jaskier scoot upwards and tuck Geralt’s head against his chest. “We should be able to get out of here by tomorrow afternoon.”

“I don’t know, it’s pretty dangerous out there. Best to wait a few extra days.” It’s bullshit, and he knows Geralt knows it, hears him scoff in response. 

Still, Jaskier decides that he’s going to make the most of their time in this cave worthwhile, and then in Kaer Morhen, and then once the last snows thaw and they’re on the road again. He’s pretty sure, after all, that Geralt will go along with it. 

“Go to sleep, Bard,” Geralt says with no heat, well on the way himself. Jaskier follows willingly, listening to the song the fire makes while it burns, accompanied by Geralt’s breathing. 

**Author's Note:**

> please visit me to yell into the void [twitter](https://twitter.com/tentaclebowtie)


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